


Amor Electro

by Salamander



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Vast-related fuckery, awkward dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-04 07:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15837066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamander/pseuds/Salamander
Summary: Escaping the heat, Martin encounters someone unexpected during his coffee and cake.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started for Camp Nano, obviously not quite finished in time for it!

It was one of those steaming hot days all over again, and Martin was taking refuge in the only air-conditioned building nearby: a Starbucks. One gigantic, sugary-sweet frozen drink, coupled with a large slice of cake and a good book and he was settled for the afternoon. Whose idea even was it to let it get this hot in England, anyway? Not a single home with air-conditioning and houses built specifically to keep in all that lovely heat made for very unpleasant Summers indeed, and Martin just couldn’t handle it any more.

The doorbell tinkled, and Martin ignored it. His favourite table was right in the back corner anyway, and the sofa he was camping out on faced away from the door, so it was easier all around to just not bother nosying on new people coming in for a welcome reprieve from the heat. And besides, it always reminded him of how his mum used to smack him on the shoulder if she caught him staring at someone while they were out. Being nosy was a cardinal sin in her mind, and it was pretty deeply ingrained into Martin at this point. 

He rested his head back against the sofa, book held loosely in one hand and the other pressing the chilled plastic cup to his forehead, breathing a sigh of happiness with closed eyes as the chill cooled him down nicely.

There was the sound of someone sitting down on the opposite sofa, but Martin kept his eyes closed, focusing on the slide of chill condensation across his temples. There was a waft of a cool smell that reminded Martin of rain; the scent just before a storm, when the pressure increased and he got a headache from it, of rain hitting asphalt. It was, frankly, an amazing smell in this heat, and it made him crave a thunderstorm. One of those huge ones, with thunder like the gods were up there moving furniture around, and lightning so bright it seared your eyes like the unexpected flash on a camera. 

The cup was beginning to get warm, and Martin sighed, opening his eyes and setting it back down on the low table. He looked up at the guy sat opposite, and blinked in surprise. Why did he look so familiar? And there was something about that scar spreading up the side of his neck; that smell...

“Fancy meeting someone from the Institute here,” the guy said, a little smile on his face. “Guess I’m not the only one hiding from the heat, huh?”

Martin blinked, and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. It’s too hot! I mean. Wait, how did you know where I work? D-do I know you?” He closed his book, placing it face-down on the table self-consciously. He didn’t want this random guy laughing at his choice of book, even if it  _ was  _ William Blake. Some people just wouldn’t know good poetry if it smacked them round the face.

“You’ve heard of me, I suspect.” The guy took a drink of his pink, cream-topped confection through his straw and smiled again; there was something in that smile, though. It didn’t quite look like it reached his eyes. “Maybe even read about me, too.”

“Read about you? Read about you whe- oh. Oh! In one of the statements? Oh god.” Martin looked around hurriedly at the rest of the customers in the shop. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?” His voice was pitched low, so only the guy opposite could hear him, and though he tried to not sound scared, it still came out a little like he was shitting himself. Which, frankly, he was. 

The guy chuckled dryly. “You’ve got to be kidding me? In this weather?” He reached up and, in a mirror of Martin’s earlier action, wiped his drink across his own forehead. “It’s too hot for that, believe me. And besides, we’re far too low down. It’s Mike, by the way. Mike Crew?”

Comprehension dawned across Martin’s face, and he blushed slightly. When he’d heard the statements about Michael Crew, he hadn’t thought that he’d be  _ cute _ . Oh jeez. And now here he was, finding beings of eldritch power cute. What the hell had got into him? Martin offered a hesitant smile, clutching his drink like it would save him from all impending social embarrassment. “Uh, hey Mike, I’m Martin. I mean, you might have already known that? Since you seem to know where I work already and stuff, I mean. Uh, anyway. What have you been up to?”

Mike raised an eyebrow at Martin. “Oh you know, dying in the heat, tossing people off buildings, the usual.”

Martin choked on his sip of coffee, then realised that Mike was taking the piss. He  _ was  _ taking the piss, right? “Haha, okay. Good. I mean, well not good, but you know.” Ugh, what was he even saying? “What are you drinking?”

“Strawberry thing, I guess. It’s quite nice?” Mike took a drink from his straw again, as if to reinforce his opinion.

“Mm, it looks good.” Martin winced internally at his own abysmal small-talk skills. How did people even cultivate that as a skill? Maybe some people were born with it. Or maybe he was just really, really shit. Probably the second one. Mike still smiled, though, and even if it didn’t seem remotely genuine, it felt nice to actually be chatting to someone in his free time. Someone outside the guys he worked with, of course. They didn’t count. 

He looked back at Mike again, into pale eyes that reminded him of the sky, and was hit with a sudden sweep of vertigo. It felt like falling, but Martin could feel the sofa under his legs, the slight chill of the coffee in his hand, and, above all, that delicious, all-encompassing ozone smell. It left him dizzy and breathless, and he leant forward, grounding himself on the coffee table. “Holy shit, what was that?”

Mike looked down at the top of Martin’s head and reached out, touching his hair ever so gently. “That was me, I’m afraid. It’s difficult to turn it off, sometimes.” 

Martin glanced upwards, noticing the way Mike’s shirt was open by quite a lot of buttons, the way the Lichtenberg scar branched down his neck and tantalisingly further until obscured by fabric. He swallowed, taking a deep breath of ozone to calm himself. “That feels, uh. I don’t even know. Like flying or something. And the smell! Is it going to rain? I feel like it needs to thunderstorm, don’t you?” 

Mike winced, and Martin immediately realised what he’d said. “Oh shit, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay.” Mike’s fingers moved through Martin’s hair as though he was trying to comfort him. “Storms hold no fear for me any more. That was more of an automatic reaction, I suppose.”

“Did it take you a long time,” Martin asked, voice quiet, “to get over it, I mean?”

“Not after Ex Altiora.” Mike removed his hand, and Martin wanted nothing more than to put it right back in his hair. “Hard to be afraid of something you’ve bound like that.”

“That- that makes a lot of sense, actually.” Martin looked down and realised, all of a sudden, that he hadn’t even touched his cake. “Hey, I still have cake. Do you want some? It’s carrot. Carrot cake, I mean. Not just carrots.”

“Sure, why not. It’s been a while since I had some carrot cake.”

“Hah, yeah, me too. That’s why I got it, I thought oh, it’s been a while since I had carrot cake!” Martin cringed internally again, pushing the plate towards Mike to hide it. 

“Are you always so awkward or am I just special?” Mike picked up the cake fork and neatly cut the cake in half. “Because either way, it’s quite endearing. And also a bit gratifying, because  _ I’m  _ usually the awkward one.” 

“Uh. I mean, yeah. Yeah I am.” Martin chuckled, but he felt the relief hit him like a ton of bricks. “Talking to people is hard, and I suck at it.” 

“But at least there’s cake.” Mike picked up his half of cake, holding his other hand palm upwards underneath it to catch any crumbs. Martin watched him take a bite, the way his throat moved as he swallowed. It was distracting. 

Martin cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Cake is always good!” 

Mike nodded as he polished off his half, and Martin stopped being distracted watching Mike for long enough to eat his own half of the cake. It was pretty good, and he noticed that Mike had given him the bigger half of the corner. “You didn’t have to take the smaller piece,” he said, somewhat reproachfully. “I wouldn’t have minded!”

“Well, maybe not, but I don’t know. It was  _ your  _ cake and I don’t really need to eat so much these days really.”

“You don’t need to eat? Wow, that sounds awful!” Martin realised how that sounded as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Uh, that is to say. I mean. Is it awful? Don’t you miss like, a really good steak or something? I dunno, maybe I just like food too much.” He looked ruefully down at his stomach, which was doing that oh-so-flattering thing where it bunched up and made him look like he was a kid going swimming with an inflatable ring around his waist. 

He realised self-consciously that Mike was regarding him with mild curiosity, his head tilted to one side. “Oh god, I- sorry. Sorry! That was weird wasn’t it?”

“No, not really. You should probably stop worrying so much about what you’re saying, you know.” Mike just looked at him still, and Martin felt that swoop of vertigo once more. 

“Is- is that you doing that again? God, it’s- it’s, I don’t know. Is it meant to be sort of good?”

“It feels good to you? Huh, interesting.” 

“Is it? Interesting, I mean.”

“You’re the first person to like it, yes.” Mike sucked on his straw thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re marked for the Vast,” he said after a moment, something twinkling in his eyes like stars, or maybe like those deep sea fish who glowed to lure in their prey.

But something about Mike didn’t speak to Martin of those depths. His eyes were the palest, but somehow brightest, blue Martin had ever seen - they made him want to go skinny dipping in the sea at night, where you couldn’t tell where the water ended and the sky began. They made him itch to write about stars and lightning and sky so blue you could drown in it. 

“God,” he whispered, the swooping in his belly again coupled with that particular dance of butterflies that he normally only felt when Jon was around. 

“I know a place,” Mike continued, as though Martin hadn’t said a word. As though his whole world hadn’t just been spun on its axis. “It has cold water, and it’s pretty quiet, even when the weather’s like this.”

“Perfect,” Martin breathed, for once too swept up in everything to be anxious or to stumble over his words, or worry about what his hands were doing. “Let’s do that.”

The place, as it turned out, was actually quiet. Almost a miracle in London on a hot day, and Martin couldn’t help but wonder whether Mike had made it happen, somehow. Like, maybe he’d waved a hand and sent all the kids and parents zooming off into the sky. Or maybe they were just really lucky. Yeah...

There was a shallow stone pool in a closed-off yard, and it was surrounded by those water jets which spurted in a fine spray from the floor in a programmed pattern, little LED lights surrounding the holes in the ground. There must have been some drainage in the pool, because it seemed to stay at the same level, no matter how much water poured into it. 

Martin gazed around, noticing the sudden lack of people sounds, the way even the birds seemed to have stopped singing. “I’m not even going to ask,” he murmured, as Mike watched his face for a reaction. 

Stepping close to one of the jets, Martin held out his hand and allowed the water to pulse through it on it’s upwards path, delighting in the chill and pressure against his skin. “God, that’s so nice,” he breathed, eyes closing with pleasure. 

An arm came around his waist, and the next thing he knew he was being walked forward directly into the jets. He let out a gasp of delight as the next one went straight up his trousers, and then realised that yeah, that was Mike’s arm around his waist, and yeah, they were stood in a big spray of water together. He turned to Mike and flashed him a grin. “Come on, the pool!” 

Mike smiled right back at Martin - was it him, or was that a genuine one this time? - and made some sort of gesture with his hand. That bloody whooshing took hold of Martin’s stomach again, and then the next second they were in the pool, almost floating on their backs and surrounded by the bluest water he’d ever seen. 

Martin’s clothes billowed out around him, his baggy t-shirt rising to the top of the water in a bubble of fabric, and he tilted his head back to look at the sky. “This is better than Starbucks,” he said with a laugh in his voice. 

“You like it?” Mike sounded almost hesitant, as though he couldn’t believe someone would be enjoying this. 

“Are you serious?” Martin lifted his head to look at Mike, confusion written on his face. “Why wouldn’t anyone like this? It’s got to be fifty degrees out here right now, and here we are in the only quiet place in London and there’s cold water and a pool and it’s just us, and wow, yeah I’m talking too much aren’t I?” He coloured and went back to looking at the cloudless sky, trying not to look back at Mike.

“You aren’t talking too much,” Mike replied, letting his hand just float on the surface of the water. The jets chose that moment to go through their motions again, raining down on them with a rainbow flurry of droplets. Mike laughed, then. The first real, actual emotion he’d shown so far, and Martin felt his heart drop away into his stomach at the sound of it. He felt like he could fly, like he was floating at the edge of the horizon, just a breath away from falling forever.

“I could stay here forever,” he breathed, reaching out to press his own palm on top of Mike’s. “How are you even doing this?”

“Not sure, to be honest. This shit just seems to happen whenever I think about it a bit. It’s quite convenient really.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Martin flexed his fingers against Mike’s, pondering whether to twine them together like a Real Gesture, or whether to just give up and leave it be like he always did. He looked up at the sky again, and saw Mike’s eyes in it’s blue, and tightened his fingers around Mike’s, slipping them together like he didn’t want to let go.

“I hope this is oka-” Martin began to say, but he was silenced by a rushing of air, a lowering of pressure that he felt deep inside him, and the gentle press of Mike’s lips to his own.

Mike kissed him, chaste and cool, like he’d been eating spearmint ice. Martin smiled into the kiss, embracing the dizziness and vertigo, grounded by his fingers twined with Mike’s.

The next thing he knew, they were in the air. Martin’s clothes were soaking wet, sticking to his skin and showing all his squishy bits, but for once in his life he didn’t care. He was kissing Mike and they were surrounded by blue sky and the scent of fresh, crisp air as though they were atop the highest mountain.  

Martin giggled breathlessly as they broke apart. “Am I going to plummet to my death if you let go of me? Why am I finding that funny? God, am I high?”

Mike tilted his head, a smile curling on his lips that Martin found himself wanting to kiss. “Maybe the air is too thin for you. How are you breathing?”

“Uh, breathing seems fine. Oh god, am I going to get altitude sickness?”

A cool hand pressed against his cheek, and Mike brought Martin’s face towards his, pressing their foreheads together. “Breathe. Slowly, and look at me.”

“Well that’s not hard, you’re kinda really nice to look at.”

Mike chuckled and slid his other hand around Martin’s waist, pulling him flush against his body. “You’re not too shabby yourself.”

“You really think that?”

“Well yes. I’d hardly be bringing you all the way up here and holding you like this if I didn’t think that.”

“Hm, I guess that’s true.” Martin closed his eyes and took a moment to just breathe, feeling the chill air against his clothes and the way Mike smelled and the way his arm felt around his waist. 

“If I wanted to, you could just be here, falling, forever,” Mike continued, matter-of-fact. “I did that to your Archivist a bit, actually. He didn’t like it very much.”

And there it was. Martin felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “Uh, okay. I- I think I’d like to go back down now, please. If that’s okay, I mean.” He looked past Mike, desperate not to look in those eyes which now seemed so cold and inhuman. 

“Oh.” Mike did something and then they were on the ground once more, mid-calf deep in the stone pool of water. But this time it was noisy, and there were kids splashing through the fountains, and it all pressed in on Martin like a small room with no escape. Mike let Martin go and looked at him, face measured and so, so blank. “Right then.” 

Martin took a step backwards, his wet clothes suddenly uncomfortable, showing all his squishy parts in stark outline. He wrapped both arms around his waist and looked at the floor. “Thanks for the pool and the sky. I’ll, um. I’ll see you around. Later. Or something.” 

By the time he’d finished the sentence and looked up, Mike was gone. It was like he’d never been there at all, apart from the lingering smell of a storm and a sudden drop in air pressure that crushed Martin’s skull like an iron band. 

Clouds gathered, and the heat broke, spilling fat droplets from fat clouds in a storm of pathetic fallacy to rival the best tragic poetry.

\- - -

Mike crouches on his haunches at the top of Blackpool Tower, the salt air whipping through his hair. He watches, detached, as the black-haired woman looks down through the glass floor, feeling the way that her heart skips and her stomach sinks. “It’s high, isn’t it,” he murmurs, watching her face for a reaction.

“Yeah, really high!” Her voice is high-pitched, and Mike can smell her nervousness. She edges away from the glass until her back presses against only the wall that isn’t glass. 

Mike twitches his fingers, and the floor disappears with a rushing sound. The woman screams, but her breath is snatched away by the wind. “Isn’t it beautiful,” Mike continues. His voice is quiet, but it carries over the wind, and the woman looks at him, the whites of her eyes showing in terror.

Her eyes are the same colour as Martin’s, he notices, and then sighs internally. Another twitch of his fingers and the floor returns, leaving the woman to grasp for the wall, crouching down as though she might fall through the floor.

“What the fuck  _ are  _ you?” she manages to spit, baring her teeth at him. 

Mike copies her expression right back, feeling a strange sort of wildness settle upon him. “I’m a monster, didn’t you realise? Get lost before I change my mind.”

She flees, and Mike sits himself down cross-legged in the centre of the glass floor, facing the outside world. He lets his fingers drop, splaying them out on the glass and feeling the slick coolness beneath his fingertips. Beyond, the greyish waves lap against the sands, humans out there enjoying the sunshine, and Mike’s mind drifts to the chill of water against his clothes, tentative fingers twining his own, and he sighs heavily.

“What have I got myself into?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During Jon's absence, it falls to Martin to read the statements. This one turns out to be a little more hands on than he expected.

Martin turned on the recorder with a  _ click  _ and a sigh. It was great that Jon was travelling for work, out there in America, investigating things, but he was really starting to dread recording statements. They always left him with such a headache, almost like a hangover. He had wondered just how Jon managed to do so many without any side-effects, but maybe that was just because he was the Archivist with a Capital A and Martin was just an assistant, with a lesser, much smaller and meeker a. 

He shuffled the papers, peered at the header and began. “Begin recording. This is the statement of, uh, Brian Greyling, regarding a gift he bought for his wife for their ninth wedding anniversary. The original statement was taken on the twentieth of March, 2009. Audio recording by Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute. 

“Okay, here goes nothing, I guess. Hope it’s not a horrible one…” Martin took a breath, and begun. 

‘So this place, it was a normal jewellery shop, right? Or at least, that’s what I thought. It was tucked away on the corner of Covent Garden, so not even somewhere totally random, you know? There’s loads of little shops like that in Covent Garden, and this one was really nice too. It had all this vintage stuff, and our Louise really loves vintage, so I thought I’d go in and I’d get her a nice necklace or something. I mean, last year I forgot it was our anniversary until the night before, so this time I’d made a bit of extra effort to write it in my calendar, you know? Figured she might appreciate a proper present, not like some petrol station flowers like last time. I got a right bollocking for that.

‘So anyway, like I was saying, I found this little shop. It was called Silver Temptations or something. Or was it Silver Lining? I don’t remember. Anyway, it was a pretty dingy little place, almost looked like it hadn’t had anyone coming in for a year or something. But I thought it was kind of charming, and besides, our Louise always said that the best vintage places had cobwebs, or something like that anyway. So I went up to the counter and I said hiya mate, and asked him if he had anything nice for an anniversary, that I was looking for a necklace, and that our Louise really liked those pale blue stones. What are they called, sapphires? No wait, those are the darker ones. Oh, aquamarine! Them’s the ones. So I asked him if he had anything with aquamarine in it.

‘Anyway, he said he had quite a selection at the moment, or something like that. He talked kind of weird, a bit posh like, and sort of like he was chewing a toffee or something. He pulled out a tray from under the counter, and it did actually have quite a few necklaces on. All of them were blue too, it looked like he colour-coordinated all the jewellery which was nice. Helpful for a bloke like me, anyway. Maybe that’s how women think about cars, heh. They just know that they want a blue one.’

“Uh, okay, that’s a bit of a sexis-” Martin winced and shuffled the papers again, then cleared his throat. “It’s a good job I’m reading this and not Melanie. Sorry about that. I’ll carry on.”

‘So all of these necklaces were pretty nice, but there was one right off at the edge which really caught my eye. It was almost plain, really. Just a circular silver locket with a blue stone right in the middle, um, an aquamarine. There were some patterns in the silver around it, they looked a bit like lightning? I don’t know what it was about that one, but it really caught my eye. I mean, it was quite plain compared to the rest of them, but I knew our Louise would love it, so I went to pick it up and then the shopkeeper slapped my hand! He actually slapped my hand. 

‘I looked up at him sharp like, to give him a piece of my mind, but he had this expression on his face and, well look. I’m not a small guy as you can see, but the way he looked at me, well I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t want to go there.

‘He picked up the necklace then, like he was fair cradling a baby, and he handed it to me like he was giving me the crown jewels. I took it, and all of a sudden I could see why he was being like that. As soon as I got it in my hand, I didn’t want to let it go ever again. It made me feel light inside, like my belly was full of champagne and lightning. And there was this  _ sound _ . 

‘It was like, you know when you put a seashell up to your ear and you can hear the waves? It was like that, only with the sky. I know that sounds weird, because how can you  _ hear _ the sky? But that’s what it was like. I swear I could hear a storm coming, too. I could definitely smell one, like it was coming from the locket. It smelled like rain on the tarmac, you know? Fresh and clean, but also ominous at the same time. Like nothing would ever be the same again, if I took this necklace.

‘But then, at the same time, I couldn’t  _ not  _ take it, if that makes any sense. So anyway, I pulled out my wallet and gave him fifty and I legged it. I half thought he was gonna take it back, see, so I figured better just get the hell out of there. 

‘And then I get home, and it’s just me because our Louise works nights, on account of her being a nurse and all, and I pulled out the locket and, well yeah. It was still blue, still made that sound. I mean, not like I thought it wouldn’t, but I just had to know. I held it up to my ear and I swear to you, it started raining. This huge storm just blew in, like it came from the locket itself! Yeah I know, don’t look at me like that, I’m not daft. It’s just what happened, okay? And I knew that if I didn’t put the thing on, that storm would eat me. I just knew, in my bones. Like you know how some people know if the weather’s changing cos they feel it in their knees? Well it was like that. Only I suppose it wasn’t just in my knees, either. Kinda felt like it was all the way through my body. My heart, my pulse, I could feel my hairs start to stand on end like I’d been rubbing myself with a balloon.

‘So long story short, I put the damned locket on. It- well, you can see for yourself. Look.’ 

The text stopped for a bit, then continued in a shakier hand, and Martin swallowed hard. “There’s a diagram,” he said, “looks like a Lichtenberg figure, but the edges are all brown and- oh god! I think it’s skin. I think it’s actually skin. Okay wow, that is disgusting. Who  _ took _ this damn statement? And more importantly, why the hell would they put some Yorkshire dude’s skin in like some sort of gross, freaky pressed flower? Urgh.” Martin paused to compose himself as best he could, a slight wave of dizziness washing over him. 

He glanced at the packet that the statement had been wrapped in and realised that it was bulkier than it should be, still, for a manilla folder which should have only contained papers. “Right, well I’m not sure I want to know what’s in there. But I suppose I should get on with the statement... “ Martin cleared his throat, and then continued;

‘Yeah I know, it’s bad isn’t it? Our Louise couldn’t even look at it when she saw me. See, she’d got a migraine at work and had to come home early, and she walked right through the front door and found me on the floor like I was having some sort of fit. She said the air right reeked of lightning or something, and not to mention the burnt flesh. I still can’t look at a barbeque right, even now… 

‘Anyway, she had gloves on on account of it being pretty chilly outside, and she managed to yank that locket straight off me. Took a nice bit of my skin with it too, that’s the bit I just gave you. You should put it in the statement, that way they all know I’m not a liar. Everyone just looks at me funny when I tell them about it, so I’ve just, you know. Stopped. Even our Louise went sort of distant, too. I mean, that could have been because of the nightmares. Those are a thing, now. Every night, near enough, I wake up in such a cold sweat. Feels like I’m falling through a thunderstorm, only there’s no ground. 

‘Brian stopped, at this point, and he was drenched in sweat. I decided I’d heard enough and told him he could go. But not before he’d shoved a little package wrapped up in a thick, furred leather glove across the table at me. I thought it prudent  _ not  _ to open the package, although I include it in this statement for future cataloguing and interment into Artifact Storage. End of statement.’

“Wow,” Martin sat back heavily in his chair, taking a moment to just digest what he’d read out. “So I guess that means- yeah. Locket’s in there, alright.” He lifted the edge of the file gingerly and a section of grey fur poked out. “Yup, one deadly burning sky locket, right there. Thanks Gertrude, I mean, would it have been so hard to put the thing away?” Martin sighed. He knew what he had to do, and he certainly was not thrilled about the fact. The locket would have to be filed away in Artifact Storage, and he would have to get it done now. Probably also the page with the section of skin marked by the Lichtenberg figure, since there was no way of knowing if that was also now tainted by its association with the locket. 

“Okay, so there has to be some gloves around here somewhere.” Martin opened the top drawer of the desk and rummaged through the contents. Packet of chocolate digestives, box of paracetamol, pencil sharpener, stapler, hole punch, scissors, old tube of polos, but no gloves. “Great.” 

With another sigh, Martin shook his head tightly, then took a deep breath and picked up the file, tipping it up so that the glove-wrapped locket slid out onto the desk. With it came the unmistakable aroma of ozone and that sharp tang of what he could only assume was lightning. It was like hot rain on tarmac, like looking into Mike’s eyes as they flew, only his arms between Martin and plummeting to his death. Or to his not-death, depending on how Mike was feeling. Considering some of the statements he’d featured in, it could be either really. 

Martin’s hand reached out and he unfolded the leather glove, soft and worn beneath his fingers. The locket slid out onto the table, and he ran his fingertips across the frontispiece, feeling the swirls and patterns embossed into the silver, slick and cool against his skin. The blue jewel shone, though the only light in the Archives was the yellowed overhead tubes that Tim always complained about being too dim. 

He could hear the wind, feel the thunder deep in his bones, the lightning tang searing his nostrils. His mind went back to the little stone pool, the water fountaining above them, that perfect, cloudless sky. 

Martin reaches up and clasps the silver chain around his neck, gently placing the locket into the hollow of his throat. He feels it pulse against him like a second heartbeat, feels the thrum of potential energy all the way to his toes. His hairs stand on their ends and a flash of brightness sears his eyes, bringing Martin to tears. They aren’t afraid scared tears though. How could he be afraid of this? It’s so beautiful, the storm in this locket. It calls to him, begs him to succumb to it, to let the Vastness of the sky into his heart and soul. 

He stretches out both of his arms to the sides, ready and willing, and then he is knocked backwards off his chair like a thunderbolt. A blonde one, to be precise, and a lot more solid than he thinks is possible for a lightning strike. 

Martin looks up, dazed, the scent of ozone in his nose and the solid weight of Mike on top of him, pressing him down into the hideous, old-person carpet that graces the Archive’s floors. 

“Mike,” he says, voice shaky. The locket burns his throat, and Martin realises with a flush of shame that he’s on the verge of tears. “What- what are you doing here?” 

Mike looks down at him like a bird of prey, head tilted to one side, eyes scanning for any weakness. With a decisive movement, he reaches around Martin’s neck and unclasps the locket, sliding his hands around into the dip of his throat until he cups the locket and removes it oh-so-gently, as if picking up a newly-hatched bird to put back into its nest.

“That could have been very bad,” Mike says, his face the usual blank, but Martin swore that he saw an emotion flash across it like lightning. “You shouldn’t be playing with things you don’t have any understanding of.”

He stands, reaches out his hand and pulls Martin upright too. His usual dishevelled appearance is the same, and he’s still got that whole ‘just got out of bed’ look to him, like no one ever told him shirts were meant to be buttoned up all the way to the top, or that suits were supposed to be pressed and actually fit you well. Not that Martin can say anything, since his wardrobe mostly consists of cardigans, old shirts and slightly shabby knitwear. 

Martin is close to Mike, upon standing. Close enough to see his eyes, their paleness, and to smell the ozone smell of him. He can still hear the locket, clasped as it is loosely between Mike’s fingers, and the urge to take hold of it once more is strong. 

“No,” Mike says, firmly. He tucks the locket into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and it’s whispering ceases. Martin hadn’t realised how loud it was, rushing in his ears like he was falling, and he exhales a huge breath of relief which feels like it had been held for days. 

“What  _ was _ that thing,” he asks, voice shaky. He would normally be embarrassed about that part, but he is still full of sky and wind and the storm, and he wants Mike more than he can even begin to explain.

“An artefact of the Vast,” Mike says, his fingers still wrapped around Martin’s, “and something you should definitely not be playing with.”

“I wasn’t  _ playing _ ,” Martin retorts, stung. “I was reading a statement, about that locket, actually, and then it was just… sort of there.”

“Yes, and you don’t remember picking it up, either, I imagine.” Mike’s mouth goes lopsided, like he’s making an attempt at a wry smile, and something in the expression makes Martin soften. 

“No, I don’t. God, I hate these things! Why do they always have to  _ be _ like that?”

“They need feeding,” Mike says, simply. Like it is the most obvious answer, and Martin sighs. 

“Feeding. Great, because that doesn’t sound ominous at all. Thanks Mike.”

“Well, you didn’t fall all the way to it, so you’re welcome I guess.”

“How did you even know, anyway? I mean, what, do you have like, telepathic Vast powers or something?”

Mike chuckles. “Not quite, but I  _ do  _ know when someone is about to fall. It’s pretty helpful, actually. You, though? I don’t know. I think it likes you. It was more excited about you, anyway. More than it has been about any of the others.”

“The others… your victims, you mean.” There was that realisation again, and it brought Martin rushing back into himself with a thump. He was nearly one of those. He was probably a few seconds away from feeding the Vast himself, and that? Yeah, that was pretty damn terrifying. 

Mike sighed. “Victims, yes I suppose you could call them that. I… don’t normally think about them, really. It makes everything easier, I guess.”

“Yeah, I guess it would do, wouldn’t it. They’re just food to you, aren’t they? What does that make me?”

“I don’t know.” Mike’s words were soft, and the way he looked at Martin made something flip in his stomach. “I haven’t done that, since. Fed it, I mean.”

Martin choked out a horrified laugh, realising all of a sudden that his hand was still in Mike’s. He pulled it back and wrapped them both around his waist, noticing the difference in their body temperatures immediately. “Great. That’s- that’s great, Mike.” He thought about the kind of sarcastic comments Tim would make, or even Jon, but he just couldn’t come up with anything. Maybe he wasn’t wired that way or something. He’d always been boring like that. 

“I mean… what do you want me to say? That’s good. But you need to do it, don’t you? Feed it, I mean. You need to. Otherwise… I dunno, none of the statements are very clear.”

Mike nodded, solemn. “Yeah, I do. I can’t go much longer, really. Things start to get a bit… um. Weird.”

“Weirder than shoving people off Tour Montparnasse so the sky can eat them? Huh. Didn’t think it could get much weirder than that.”

“Believe me, it can. It’s… unpleasant. I found out the hard way, at first. After I jumped out of that window, gave myself to it, well. I’d already been hanging out in the high places, so it only seemed natural to carry on sticking around up there. When other people inevitably came up too, or found me, or whatever, there was this voice inside me. ‘Imagine how they’d feel’, it seemed to say, ‘when they fell. All that fear, that terror, elation. Losing their breath, stolen by the sky.’ Anyway, it took me a while before I gave in.”

Mike paused for a second, rubbed the back of his head almost sheepishly. “I suppose I was… more myself back then, so yeah, it took me a while. I’d get dizzy, like I know you do sometimes when you look at me. Like the room was spinning, and everything was backwards and upside down. And at the worst times, the times when I really thought everything was going to be taken away, I’d see the lightning again. The Lichtenberg figure, in the corner of my eye. So I did it. The very next person, I pushed them. And I was free again, just like that.” Mike clicked his fingers. 

“Back into myself, flying high on the Vast’s approval. It gave me flight, after that. After the first time. I used to go all the way to the top of the highest places I could find and just float there, waiting for the next person to arrive.”

Martin hugged himself tighter. He could almost hear the wind caressing his hair, whispering to him. He ached for the locket, for the sky, the Vast. He ached for Mike, but how could he? He was a  _ monster _ , one of the things they were meant to fight, like Jane Prentiss and Nikola Orsinov and- and, well, most of the things that appeared in the statements. But there had been Michael, hadn’t there? He wasn’t  _ too  _ bad, considering he helped them and all. And Mike  _ had  _ just saved him, even though he could have left him there, left him to the locket, to feed the Vast, and Martin could have been lost there, in the storm, forever.

But he wasn’t. He was here, and Mike had saved him, even though he didn’t have to, and they’d kissed, the last time they were together. They’d actually  _ kissed _ . And Martin’s dreams since had been sky-touched, blue all around like the blue of Mike’s eyes, and he’d finally felt free and able to breathe. Not like down there in the Archives, surrounded by dust and knowledge: out there,  _ up there _ , Mike’s arms around him and the storm of emotions inside Martin like a monsoon. 

He looked down at Mike, noticing abstractly how much shorter he was. How incongruent that seemed, compared to the presence he exuded. “I have to get back to work,” Martin murmured, licking his lips. “But- but I’d really like to see you again. If that’s, um. If that’s okay I mean?” The words came out in a tumble, as he was wont to do when nervous, and Martin flushed all the way to his ears.

Mike tilted his head, as if trying to puzzle out the meaning of the words, but after a moment he nodded, slowly, that half-smile spreading across his lips. “I would like that,” he replied, eyes watching Martin’s tongue as he licked his lips again. “I would like that very much.”

“Oh, you would? I mean- great! Me too! Okay, so I’ll see you… at some point. When? I mean, are you free this weekend? Or do you have, um. Work?”

“I’m free this weekend. I need to take care of some business tonight, but after then I’m all yours. If you want me to be, obviously.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “All- all mine? That sounds. Really really good,” he breathed. “Yeah. Maybe you can show me some Vast stuff that won’t try to eat me?” The hopefulness shone through his voice like sunshine through a blind, and Martin winced inwardly at how uncool he sounded. Mike was going to think he was super desperate or something, and he’d run a mile. 

But instead, he smiled again, that slow, considering smile, and took hold of Martin’s hand once more. “It’s a date,” he said, head tilted once more as if listening to the sound of his own words. “That’s a thing people say, right?”

Martin couldn’t stop the startled laughter spilling from his lips, dissolving all traces of awkwardness that he’d been desperately trying to stamp down. “Yeah, that’s a thing people say. And I mean, if it’s okay with you, I’d rather not get a weird Vast locket as a present, if you were thinking about that anyway. I think that thing might be better off far away from any people anywhere. Maybe the bottom of the ocean or something?”

“Hm, not sure the Ocean would appreciate being given something from her own aspect, but I see what you’re trying to say. So if I was to bring a present, I guess it should be something benign, huh? No books that predict your death or lockets that summon a storm to eat you?”

“Oh god, preferably not!”

“Okay, can do. I guess I’ll see you on Saturday then?”

“Yeah, Saturday! That sounds… really awesome. Um, do you have a phone? In case I need to text you or something?”

“Oh, yeah, one second.” Mike pulled out a perfectly normal-looking phone and pulled up the contacts list, and Martin added himself as a new contact and, feeling brave, added a blue heart at the end of his name. He handed the phone back, suddenly shy, and hurried over to pick up his toppled chair and the papers that’d gone flying off the desk. 

“Cute,” Mike said, looking at his phone with a strange expression on his face. And then he was gone in a rush of wind, the only sign he’d even been there a lingering scent of ozone and rain on pavements.

\- - -

Mike looks at his watch, sighs, and tucks his chin into his scarf. The weather isn’t particularly chilly, considering it’s June and all, but he’s used his scarves as a crutch and a disguise for so many years now that it always feels slightly strange to not be wearing one. 

As if on cue, a tall, black-haired man steps into the elevator next to him. He glances sidelong at Mike, who smiles flatly back at him.

“Hot weather we’re having,” the man says, in that irritating way humans do when faced with strangers in lifts. 

“Mm,” Mike replies, looking straight ahead into the reflective surface of the lift doors. He scans the man - taller than him, of course, and hair so black he probably had some Mediterranean or Portuguese heritage in him somewhere. His eyes, Mike notices with relief, are a steady hazel, and completely dissimilar to Martin’s. They are shrewd eyes, laughter lines at their corners, and Mike blinks then looks away to stop his thoughts from straying down  _ that _ path. Humanising people isn’t a good idea just before you plan to feed them to your benefactor. 

Mike rolls his shoulders as the lift bings, its electronic voice proclaiming their arrival to the rooftop gardens. He allows the man to step through before him with a slight incline of his head, and notes as he follows that the gardens are empty, and harbours a brief amusement that the Lukases might be just at home here as he is. 

The man walks to the balcony, leans both his arms over the railing, and lights up a cigarette. “I like to come up here at sunset,” he says over his shoulder. “It’s good after a long, shitty day at work.”

“Mm, I bet,” Mike replies. He ghosts forward, light-footed, and hovers at the man’s elbow. “Feels like you’re on top of the world, doesn’t it.” 

The man turns to him, an appreciative smile curling on his lips. “Yeah, you get it. You want a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke.” Mike leans against the railing too, a comfortable distance away from the man, and sighs heavily. 

“Sounds like you need to talk about something, mate. How about a bit of the old kindness of strangers, huh?” He turns to Mike, a smile on his face, and Mike’s stomach sinks. 

The kindness offered reminds him of Martin, and the way he helps people without a second thought, and, suddenly, he’s in that not-quite-human, not-quite-Vast state again and his head is spinning.

He pushes himself back off the railing, heart thumping in his chest, a swoop of nausea in his stomach like the first time he felt the Lichtenberg figure following him all those years ago and the realisation that this guy isn’t even afraid of heights at all crashes into him.

“I can’t- I can’t  _ do this _ ,” he spits. 

The man opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again and shakes his head. Is that sadness Mike sees fleet across his face? He doesn’t even know anymore. All he knows is that he wants to fling  _ himself  _ from the railings, not this random stranger, and that’s all fucking  _ wrong _ . He’s the predator here, he’s the one who gives people over to the Vast and terrible blue, pitching them to their fates one after another, encircled by his benefactor’s- well, not love. It’s never been love. Necessity, yes, or maybe symbiosis is the better descriptor of their give-take relationship.

He feels his stomach pitch and yaw and Mike flees, not trusting himself to run to the railing, and certainly not trusting the Vast to give him the benefit of his powers after a  _ second _ instance of not feeding it. 

No, Mike runs back into the lift, to the ground, safe as the sun sets around him, sky turning the red of blood and he knows it’s anger. Can feel it in his very bones, the fury, that trickling, insistent removal of power. If he keeps this up, he can’t even begin to think what’ll happen to him.

Maybe he’ll be swallowed by the sky, just like all those other people he’s given to it. He laughs, its edges tinted with fear and madness, and then disappears into the night, to the relative safety of his flat. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike and Martin go on their first real date - things don't quite go as expected.

The rest of Friday seemed like it lasted forever, and Martin couldn’t stop looking at his phone to see if Mike had texted him. It was probably pretty pathetic, but his stomach gave a little flutter every time he thought about getting a text from him. 

As it happened, there wasn’t a glimpse of anything until Martin went to bed. He’d been lying awake for about half an hour, phone on the pillow next to him like an anxious teenager. 

Despite himself, he was beginning to drop off when the phone buzzed, the screen turning itself on and promptly blinding Martin. “Ugh,” he groaned, grabbing the phone and turning the brightness down enough that it didn’t hurt to look at.

‘I can’t sleep. Kinda shit evening. How was yours?’

Martin giggled under his breath, bringing his knees up to his chest so he was curled around his phone. ‘Me neither,’ he started typing. ‘It was boring. Why was yours shit?’ He pressed send, stomach fluttering. Texting after midnight, ooh so exciting. He could almost hear Tim’s scornful voice, but then his phone vibrated again and it drove away any thoughts of anyone else.

‘Just shit. Vast stuff. So what do you want to do tomorrow?’

‘I don’t mind! What do you want to do?’

‘I asked first.’

Martin groaned. Why was choosing something always so hard? And what if Mike didn’t like what he suggested, but said okay anyway and then had a really shit time? Too much pressure. ‘I really don’t mind. Please choose?’

There was a longer gap between texts this time, and Martin had a sinking feeling that he’d scared Mike off or annoyed him too much. But then his phone lit up once more and relief flooded through him.

‘I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Close your eyes and point at something?’

‘I don’t think that’s how it works. Besides, how would I even get something to point at? I don’t think they do Maps of Things To Do On Dates.’

‘They might. Okay, I suppose I’ll try and help. What’s one place you haven’t been to that you’d like to go?’

‘Only one place?’

‘Yes, just one.’

‘Ummmm that’s hard!! I guess I’ve never been to the Tate?’

‘The Tate? You mean the art gallery Tate?’

“Yeah! What other Tate is there?’

“Good point. Okay, we’ll go there. How about lunchtime?’

‘Maybe we could eat afterwards?’ Martin felt a bit cheeky suggesting it, but it wasn’t that weird to eat after a date in an art gallery, right? Not that he’d been on many dates, and the last one was definitely just a cinema type thing, but still.

‘That sounds nice. I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Me too. Night Mike!’ Martin thought for a second, then added an ‘x’ for a kiss to the end of his text and sent it, before promptly burying his face into his pillow. 

The vibration of his phone had him unburying his face, and he grinned stupidly at the popup.

‘You too. x’

\- - -

It was a sunny morning when Martin woke up, hair tousled, from pleasant dreams of wandering an endlessly long corridor full of paintings of Mike. The memory of the texts from the night before were a warm weight in his heart, and Martin showered and ate breakfast in a happy daze.

It took him a lot longer than usual to attempt to pick an outfit for their date, but in the end, he settled on trousers and a nice blue striped shirt with an older, slightly well-worn waistcoat on top. Maybe it was a little bit too fancy, but maybe he felt like being fancy. It was his first date in god knew how many years. He was  _ allowed  _ to be fancy, and he didn’t care what Tim or Jon would say if they saw him.

He pottered around the apartment tidying random things and then untidying them again, pulling out books and putting them back again in a different order, and he even started anxiously cleaning the bathroom before realising that he probably shouldn’t get his clothes dirty. And besides, it was almost lunchtime.

Martin picked up his phone and opened the messages from last night. The little x from Mike made him smile all over again, and he typed a message, quite proud of himself for waiting the whole morning to send one.

‘Hey, I’m going to set off soon. Meet you by the bridge? x’ He put the kiss again and felt that now-familiar flutter as he pressed send, then jammed the phone into his pocket and put on his shoes. The nice brown ones, not his usual shabby black work shoes.

A glance outside showed that it was sunny, but it still felt a little cold so Martin put on a coat and then locked up.

The tube journeys went by in a daydreaming blur, broken up only by a text from Mike confirming that yes, he’d meet Martin by the bridge, along with another kiss at the end and Martin might as well have been floating out of the tube station he was so happy. 

Mike was indeed waiting at the bridge, leaning against a pillar with both hands stuffed in his pockets, staring out across the river. Martin paused for a second, just to watch him, noticing the way his scarf was tucked into his coat, not showing any of his scar at all; the way his eyes were distant, face blank and uncaring, as though a smile had never crossed his lips. It made Martin feel unbelievably sad.

All he wanted to do was hug him, right then. To invoke some semblance of emotion, some feeling that would make Mike’s eyes light up, his lips curl in a smile. Maybe that was selfish of him, Martin didn’t know. 

Shaking his head, Martin crossed the distance between them and waved, shoulders bowed inwards, making himself smaller without even realising he was doing it. “Hey, I hope you weren’t waiting long?” 

Mike turned and smiled up at Martin, and even though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, he was  _ trying _ , and that meant a hell of a lot. He pulled a brown paper bag out of his pocket and handed it to Martin, shifting from one foot to the other.  “I wasn’t waiting long, don’t worry. I ah- I brought you this. It’s not haunted or anything. It’s just a-”

Martin pulled open the bag and peered inside, then gasped. “Mike!” He pulled out the gift - a scarf, blue and wide and long, in the style of a pashmina, with silver details that reminded him of little clouds. “You didn’t have to!”

Mike looked at the floor and cleared his throat. “It’s nothing special, just one of mine. I thought you might like it.”

“I- I love it!” Martin held the scarf up to his face, burying his nose in it. It was soft, almost silky, and it had that very specific scent of sky to it that sent his stomach swooping all over again. The best kind of vertigo. “But I didn’t bring you anything…” 

“I didn’t ask you to.” Mike looked confused, brows knitting together. “I said I’d bring you a gift, so I did. You don’t have to worry about getting me anything in return.” 

“But-”

Mike held up his hand and pressed his fingers to Martin’s lips. “Shh. It’s okay.”

Martin almost stopped breathing. Mike’s fingers were cool against his skin, and he was filled with the urge to taste them. It would be so easy… But then Mike removed his fingers and Martin coughed, shuffling on his feet and still clutching the scarf. Without warning, Mike put both his hands around Martin’s and gently extricated the scarf from his fingers, then lifted a little onto his toes to wrap it around his neck, tucking both ends into Martin’s coat at the front with a satisfied smile. “There, it suits you.”

Martin blushed hard, Mike’s hand still against his chest. “Thank you,” he murmured. In a moment of bravery, he took hold of Mike’s hand and squeezed it before turning and tugging him towards the gallery.

Mike followed. He didn’t say anything about the hand, nor did he remove it, and Martin figured that meant it was okay. It was nice to hold hands with someone, he decided. Nice to walk into the gallery on a date, holding hands and wearing a present his date had brought him. It didn’t feel like his own life - like it must be happening to someone else because it was just  _ so nice _ , and who’d ever been so nice to Martin in his life? But here he was, and there was physical evidence now. He had a scarf from Mike! He made a mental note to pick up something for him after this. Maybe some fancy tea from Covent Garden or something. That would be nice. And maybe they could drink it together! Or maybe he was getting ahead of himself, and Mike wouldn’t want that at all… 

God, he needed to stop being so inside his head all the time. His mum always used to say that, didn’t she?

“So is there anything you want to see in particular?” Mike stood, his hand still twined with Martin’s, as they looked around at the displays for all the current exhibitions and installations. 

“Um, nothing special I don’t think. We could just wander around, what do you think?” 

Mike eyed a tall banner showing an exhibition of photography of the city at night with interest, although sometimes it was difficult to tell if he was really interested in anything, or if he was just pretending to seem more human.

Did it really matter, though? 

“You want to see the photos?” Martin tugged Mike over to the banner. “Third floor, it says, come on!”

He turned to Mike and noticed him smiling, as though he was practising being human again, and Martin’s stomach flipped. “What?” he said, suddenly shy.

“You’re so enthusiastic, it’s kind of adorable.” Mike squeezed his hand and headed over to the stairwell. “Looks like there’s some things up here, let’s walk up?”

“I’m adorable?” Martin’s face probably resembled a beetroot. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.”

Mike tilted his head, expression strange. “Then they don’t know what they’re missing,” he said simply, then strode off towards the stairwell, pulling Martin along with him by the hand. He was strong for such a tiny guy, although Martin guessed he shouldn’t really be surprised by that. 

He opened his mouth to reply, but all the happiness was bubbling inside him so hard that he wasn’t sure he could say anything without it coming out like a weird squeak, so he just closed it again and took the stairs with Mike. 

There were glass balls hanging from the ceiling on varied lengths of near-invisible twine, and Martin gasped as they caught the light from the windows, sending shards of rainbows across his skin. They had little twinkling lights suspended in the middle of each ball, giving them an ethereal look that took his breath away. He slowed and leaned over the banister, looking up the stairwell at the pattern of glass and light. “It looks like the stars,” he said in wonder, pointing with his free hand. “Look Mike, it’s like the sky.” 

“Hm, so it is. I wonder how they get it to look like that.”

“Yeah, all that installation stuff is so awesome.” Martin leaned his shoulder against Mike’s, worrying a little that they were blocking the stairwell, but frankly, they shouldn’t have put fancy starlights in the middle if they didn’t want people to stop and look at them, so he couldn’t find it within himself to worry too much, for once.

“Shall we continue?”

“Yeah okay, come on. One more floor to go!”

The third floor had two open doors when they arrived; the left one led to the photograph exhibit, which was dimly lit and quite full, and the right led to what seemed to be an empty room. 

“I wonder what’s through there,” Martin pondered out loud. “It looks a bit empty.”

“There isn’t a sign, either. Hm. Do you want to look there before we check out the photos?”

There’s a waft of coolness from the right hand door that carries the scent of rain with it, and Martin takes a step closer to the door without realising he’s even moving. “Yeah, let’s just- it might be quieter in the other room in a bit, let’s check here first?”

Mike cocks his head, sniffs the air and walks through the threshold, fingers tightening around Martin’s, tugging him inside.

The room is huge, Martin realises; so huge he can’t see the other side. It’s strange, he knows that the Tate Modern isn’t such a huge building, and this floor is pressed against the outer wall so there shouldn’t be  _ room _ for it to expand so, but then here they are. 

The walls are the blue of the sky after rain, and the light quality reminds Martin of a thunderstorm: there’s that energy there, the pressure’s dropped and his skin prickles.

He turns to Mike and finds him stood stock still, in the middle of the room, and Martin notices for the first time that the room itself is full of stark metal structures, clouds if they were rendered in steel and oil, and their scent is that of the sky and the ocean and everything that’s Vast and huge and unknowable, and suddenly Mike doesn’t seem so small.

His skin is whiter than Martin’s ever seen, but his scar doesn’t disappear against it. Instead it seems to glow from within, lighting him up in the most beautiful and deadly way possible. Martin thinks that he looks like one of those deep-sea creatures, all gorgeous lights in the darkness, right up until you get too close and see the truth of them in the teeth and angles and unnaturally-sized parts.

Martin backs up against a wall, or he tries to. The wall isn’t there, the whole gallery isn’t there. It’s just him and Mike and this- this  _ room  _ and he’s going to die, isn’t he? He’s going to die in this place, and no-one’s going to know and especially no-one’s going to mourn him. They might wonder where he is for a little while, but in the end it’ll be just like Prentiss all over again, he’ll be lost and not a single person will care. 

There’s something of the Lonely in him now, as the Vast spreads out around him, but ultimately it’s that space that claims him. 

Mike is next to him, now, and Martin reaches out for his fingers. They twine together, and he feels a sob heave through his chest like it’s something separate from himself. “Why, Mike?”

“It needs me,” Mike intones, eyes like looking into the sun reflected in a lake. They’re so blue it hurts, but Martin can’t look away. “It  _ needs _ -”

His words are cut off and his eyes look inward, as though he’s listening to something outside of Martin’s hearing range. His fingers tighten around Martin’s, holding him in a vice grip, and the ground falls away with the walls and they are in the air again, only this time it’s not safe and warm and comforting. This time it’s cold and empty and so so  _ Vast _ it makes his lungs hurt to breathe in. 

Martin’s stomach drops and his head swims. He can’t see or catch a breath, and then he’s falling, a strangled sob dripping from his lips like so much rain in the eternal emptiness of the sky. The scarf Mike gave him unwinds from about his neck and trails upwards, a streamer of bright colour against the stormcloud sky.

His fingers slip from Mike’s until just their fingertips are touching, pad to pad, and then a hand cuffs his wrist and they land on the floor in a tangle of limbs and breaths. 

The scarf trickles from the sky and lands atop Martin, a silken sigh in the quiet room. His chest heaves again, his sobs broken against the tiled floor. He hurts  _ everywhere _ , and Mike is crumpled on top of him and how can such a small guy be so heavy?

“Get off me,” Martin manages to choke out, “please Mike, get off me. Please?”

Mike stands, eyes blank, and holds out his hand for Martin as though he’s on autopilot. He looks sick, all of a sudden. His eyes are shadowed, and something about him just seems smaller, now. Like some of the power’s gone from him, or been  _ taken  _ from him, perhaps. 

Martin swats his hand away and climbs to his feet, clutching the scarf to his chest as he catches his breath once more. The dizziness is passing, and he feels like he’s on solid ground again, and there are walls around them, and an altogether mundane installation of fluffy, inner-lit clouds and the sound of distant thunder on a tape recording in the distance. 

Martin looks down at Mike, but he can’t find it within himself to hate him. Why can’t he hate him? This is the second time he’s done something like this! He should hate him… but Mike looks so small there, and he’s forlorn in the face of what he’s done and the power is draining from him, leaving him so much lesser somehow. Martin feels only pity, and worry, too. Always that. 

“You need to sort this out,” he says, softly. He steps closer to Mike, puts a palm against his cheek. “Whatever it is you need to do, Mike? You’ve got to do it. Whatever you need, don’t deprive yourself because of me.” Anger floods him, then, at that thought. Mike withering away, becoming lesser, all because of Martin. He won’t let him. “You hear me?”

Mike looks up at Martin, something strange on his face that looks not unlike fear. “You deserve better,” he says, simply, as though that’s the answer for it all.

Martin’s fingers clench against Mike’s face, and he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. “That’s up to me, isn’t it? Do what you need to do, Mike. I’ll be waiting for you, when you’re done.” He closes his eyes and leans further, kissing him on the lips soft and dry; chaste but lovely, and then he turns and leaves. 

\- - -

Back at the Archives on Monday morning, Martin could concentrate a little better than Friday, but his thoughts were still somewhat taken up by one Mike Crew. It didn’t help matters that he’d decided to wear the scarf to work today, much to the raised eyebrows of Jon when he’d seen it.

“What? Maybe I like wearing scarves,” Martin’d said, and Jon had just sighed in that way of his that meant he thought you were talking bollocks but he couldn’t be arsed arguing about it. 

Martin sat at his desk, poring over research notes for today’s statements, free hand tangled in the folds of the scarf. It still smelled like Mike, and even after everything, that smell didn’t scare him. Maybe he was an idiot for not being scared, for not running ten miles away from Mike Crew, until he couldn’t ever be dropped from a great height again, but Martin couldn’t find it within himself to really care.

He jumped as Jon appeared behind him, holding another stack of files which he placed on Martin’s desk carefully, balancing them on top of the pre-existing pile. “More research for statement 0121304,” Jon said with a tight smile. “Seems like we have more than I thought buried in the Archives.” He paused for a second. “Martin, are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh, I’m okay.” Martin looked up at Jon, suddenly overcome with the urge to tell him about everything. Where did that come from? “Well okay, no I’m not really. Oh god, Jon, I don’t even know anymore. Does it make me a bad person if I want him to kill someone?”

“Good lord,  _ excuse me _ ? I think you’d better start from the beginning, Martin.”

Martin opened his mouth to protest, then it all came tumbling out. Their first encounter, the water and the pool, then the gallery and everything. It felt like a purging, and when it was done, he sagged back in his chair. “I can’t believe you used the voice on me,” Martin finished, quietly. “That’s so  _ mean _ , Jon.”

“Hm, well. It looks like you needed it.” Jon leaned against the edge of Martin’s desk, one arm across his belly and the other resting on it, tapping his chin with his hand. “I really don’t think this is the most sensible course of action, do you? It’s quite unlike you, Martin. Are you sure he hasn’t done something to you? Made you infatuated with him?”

Martin glared. “I’m not  _ infatuated _ ,” he hissed. He planted both hands on his desk and stood up, feeling oddly protective all of a sudden. “And he didn’t  _ mean _ to hurt me! He didn’t even hurt me at all, actually, so I think you’re being quite unfair.” It occurred to him, somewhere at the back of his mind, that this was his boss that he was almost shouting at, but Martin didn’t give a shit. Jon shouldn’t be so- so damned  _ rude _ !

Jon put both hands up in front of him, a peace offering. “Alright, alright, if you say so. I’m just not so sure it’s a good idea.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Martin said, annoyed. “I’ve seen you and Elias, when you think nobody can see. Just because- just because you don’t give a shit about me, Jon, doesn’t mean I don’t  _ see you _ !” 

Jon took a step back, alarmed. “I was only-”

“I don’t care what you were only saying!” Martin took a deep breath, hardly able to believe what he was doing. “I just don’t care, Jon. At least Mike cares about me, unlike anyone else in this whole damn place.” His voice went quiet, at that, and his skin tingled all over with loneliness. 

Jon reached out one hand, but Martin brushed it aside and hurried away from him, diverting into the library as fast as he could before Jon could follow him or he could say anything else that might get him fired as hell.

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it with a sigh. The adrenaline left him in a rush, and Martin sagged, feeling the urge to sob rise in his chest. What was he  _ doing _ ?

“Martin? Is that you?” Basira’s voice floated out from among the stacks, and Martin stood up and hurriedly scrubbed the cuff of his jumper across his face. 

“Oh, hi Basira, I didn’t realise you were in here.” He managed to keep his voice steady, took a deep breath and then headed towards the direction of Basira’s voice,

She looked up at him from her table, concern written on her face. “Are you alright? I heard shouting.”

“I’m oka-” Martin stopped halfway through, then sat down opposite Basira. “No, I’m not okay, who am I kidding. Why does he have to be such an  _ arse _ ?”

“Jon, you mean? No idea, I think he might’ve been born like that.” Basira closed the book she was reading from and rested both her hands on top of it. “What did he say this time? Do you need someone to go shout at him? I can always ask Daisy, I’m pretty sure she’d be happy to.”

“Oh! Oh, no, there’s no need for that.” Martin chuckled weakly. “Although it would be pretty funny. No, I guess I kinda asked for it, really. Remind me not to talk to Jon about personal stuff ever again.”

Basira smiled sympathetically, then reached out and patted the back of Martin’s hand. “You wanna talk about it to a nicer ear? Can’t promise I can help you sort anything out, but it sometimes helps just to get it out.”

Martin looked at Basira, gratitude a lump in his throat. “Only if you don’t mind,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to bother you…”

“Hey, it’s not  _ bothering _ me. And anyway, you look like you need to talk to someone. Shall we get a cuppa as well?”

“That sounds… really good. Yeah, okay. I’ll go make tea, okay?”

“Sure, I’ll be here. Take your time.” Basira opened her book again and flipped back to her bookmarked page, bending over it to read while Martin was getting tea. 

He always envied her work ethic. All she seemed to do was read and research - the stuff a proper Archival Assistant should be doing, probably, when Martin was relegated to the mundane fact-checking nonsense. Although was actually quite good at that nonsense, thank you very much, so maybe he should stop being so hard on himself.

That thought was almost in Mike’s voice, and Martin’s traitorous stomach did that flippy thing again. He tucked his chin into the blue scarf, inhaling deeply of its scent as he walked to the kitchen. Making the tea was pretty much autopilot, and he grabbed the secret packet of caramel digestives from the back of the cupboard that he’d hidden there last week, pleased to have someone to share them with, as well as a reason to actually eat them. 

With the little round tray full of mugs and biscuits, Martin made his way back into the library and sat back down at the desk with Basira. “There we go, one tea with milk and three sugars, and I brought the secret biscuits too. Don’t tell anyone, will you? I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Oh my gosh, are those  _ caramel  _ digestives?” Basira closed her book again and set it to one side, clearly more interested in biscuits than research. “Don’t worry, if this is the kind of secret biscuits you keep around, I won’t be telling anyone. As long as I get a cut, of course.”

Martin smiled as he opened the packet. “Of course.” He pulled his mug closer to him and offered the biscuits to Basira, who took three, then he took three for himself as well. 

“So, you remember Mike Crew?”

“Mike Crew, as in, Lichtenberg Mike Crew?  _ Ex Altiora _ Mike Crew?”

“Heh, yeah, that one.”

“Oh my gosh, what have you been up to? I hope he hasn’t hurt you?” Basira narrowed her eyes at Martin, scanning him as though she was looking for injuries or something.

“No, he hasn’t hurt me. He… well okay, he kinda tried, I think? But he didn’t mean to. I really like him, Basira. That’s really stupid, isn’t it? He’s  _ killed people _ ! I really should care about that!”

“But you don’t,” Basira said softly. She dipped a biscuit into her tea, leaving it long enough for the caramel to soften before biting off the soggy part with evident relish. 

“No, not really. That’s evil, isn’t it?” Martin stared glumly into his tea, the scent of the steam mingling with the scarf still around his neck.

“Hmm, I don’t think I’d go that far. I mean, look at our job.” Basira gestured around at the library with her second biscuit. “We basically deal with all the dark and nasty stuff no one likes to even think exists. That… probably gives us a little bit of leeway.”

“Not that much leeway!” Martin picked up a biscuit and bit half of it off without even dunking it, chewing it morosely. 

“Well okay, maybe not that much leeway. But you’re not gonna go kill someone yourself, are you?” Basira dunked her second biscuit and devoured it. 

“Well… no. I’m not gonna go kill someone.”

“Pretty sure you’re alright then. Just-” Basira finished off her third biscuit, “just don’t tell Daisy, yeah? You know how she gets.”

“Oh god, I know. Jon told me that she only stopped kicking Mike that other time because he used his voice on her. Do you reckon she’d have killed him?”

“Probably.” Basira hooked the packet of digestives and pulled out another three with a big smile. “Listen, if you think he’s alright, then he’s probably alright. I mean, I think you’ve gotta be the nicest guy I’ve met, I don’t think you’d like anyone who was  _ evil _ , you know?” After a moment, she pulled out another three biscuits and placed them gently atop Martin’s remaining two. “Sometimes you just have to trust your heart, you know?”

Martin looked at his stack of biscuits, a hesitant smile spreading across his lips. “Well anyway, I don’t even know if he’s gonna come back. He might decide I’m not worth the effort.”

Basira narrowed her eyes and slapped him gently on the wrist. “You really need to stop talking about yourself like that. I won’t have it in my earshot, you hear me Martin Blackwood?”

Thoroughly chastened, Martin nodded through a mouthful of biscuit. God, they really were amazing. “Thanks Basira,” he said, swallowing. “You’re really the best. I don’t know how we managed without you.”

“Any time. Now, help me dig through here for info on the Circus. I’m pretty sure I’m onto something.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike does what he has to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I surE HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE FLUFF

Mike sits, a travel mug of tea cradled between his thighs, and watches the sun come up. It’s a blinding sight: pink turns orange turns pure crystal blue, and it tugs at his heart with the wild joy of it. His legs swing off the edge of the cliff, the sea no gentle maiden beneath his feet, but a wild, roaring crash of a beast, as ravenous as the sky and with no less of a limit to that hunger.

It blurs, the sea and the sky, and the sun sparkles off the waves and his heart is finally at peace. He knows what he has to do.

Mike sips at his tea as the first sounds of morning dog walkers and early runners filter towards him. He’s picked his place well; there are few people around this early, and those who are will not be missed for some time. 

A man walking a Scottie saunters past him and calls hello, and Mike raises one hand in greeting. The man nods back and they move on, the Scottie old and meandering in its gait, but clearly at peace with their morning routine.

As he finishes his tea, screws the lid back onto his mug, the distant fluorescence of a jogger slowly comes into view. He smiles a little smile, sets his mug down on the moss next to him, and stands.

One hand out, he waves to the jogger: a tall woman, her black hair scraped back behind a bright orange sweatband, matching ones at her wrists. She is very tanned, as though she’s just come back from a holiday.

“Good morning,” Mike says as she approaches, and steps into her path. She stops, confused. 

“Uh, hey. Morning?”

Mike’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes and the horizon stretches out behind him. “Have you seen what’s down there, this morning? I haven’t seen anything like it!”

Her eyes widen and a smile comes to her face, as she judges Mike not a threat. She has height on him, after all, and a lot more muscle as he can see now that they are closer, and could probably take him in a fight. If the fight were fair, and he weren’t something more than human, of course.

“Really? What is it?” Her voice is a little nervous, and Mike can tell that he’s chosen correctly.

Mike steps closer, gestures to the edge of the cliff. “Seals, I think. They’re just laying there, catching some sunshine I guess.”

She walks over, shading her eyes against the sunrise, and leans forward slightly. Mike can  _ taste _ the knife-edge of her balance.

She begins to turn, smile still there, and Mike is behind her, one hand in the small of her back. “Just keep looking,” he murmurs, and then gives her the gentlest of pushes. 

The horizon rises up to swallow her, and she’s gone between the line of the sea and the sky, as though she were never there.

Mike straightens, inhales, feeling the diamond-sharp approval wash over him. It’s electric, and he allows it to lift him from his feet, arms thrown up to embrace the blue. 

He takes a moment, after, to pick up his mug and just stand and appreciate. The sea, the sky, that infinite  _ Vastness  _ that filled his heart to the brim. But it wasn’t only that within him, not any more. He crackles with need, now, soul-deep and all encompassing. Mug clutched between his fingers, he leaves the cliffs.

\- - -

Martin checked his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that day. So much for a restful weekend - he’d spent most of it on tenterhooks, alternating between looking at his phone for texts from Mike and staring woefully at the four pages of poetry drafts he’d been writing and crossing out and rewriting and re-crossing out since their ‘date’. 

And those air quotes were very well-deserved, considering it was the second time they’d been together like that where Martin had freaked out and left in the middle. And okay, so maybe it wasn’t his fault exactly, since Mike  _ had _ almost fed him to the Vast and all, but the guilt was chewing at his insides nonetheless. It felt too much like inconveniencing people, or being  _ rude _ , and the thought of being rude to someone he had so many deep and complex feelings about was enough to make Martin feel sick all over again.

It was getting chilly outside as the sky darkened, and Martin stood up to turn on the radiators when a knock at the door nearly startled him straight out of his skin. He rushed to the door, running an anxious hand through his mop of curls and cursing himself internally for not washing his hair or putting on some nicer clothes or- damn it, anything! 

He opened the door and yeah, it was Mike. He stood there, looking slightly sheepish, with both hands behind his back, presumably hiding something. 

“Mike, hi! I uh- I didn’t expect you. Is everything okay?” Martin ran another hand through his hair and cleared his throat, stomach fluttering at the sight of him. 

Mike smiled, a sort of genuine-seeming one too, and shifted from one foot to the other. “I took care of business,” he said, by way of a hello. “And I brought you something. To say sorry for nearly getting you killed.” He brought his hands around and held out a box.

“Oh my god, Mike, you didn’t have to get me anything! You already got me the scarf!” Martin’s fingers flew to it without thinking, hung up as it was behind his door. The cool silk grounded him, and he opened the door further. “Uh, do you want to come in? I mean, the corridor isn’t very interesting, and I know my place isn’t great bu-”

“Yes, I’d love to.” Mike walked in through the door and handed the box to Martin with another of those small smiles. He was  _ trying _ and, frankly, it was really endearing. 

Martin took the box, carefully, since it was quite heavy, and lifted it to up eye level. It had a picture of a flowered teapot emblazoned on the side. “Oh my god Mike,” Martin repeated stupidly. He opened the box and pulled out a beautiful Japanese-style teapot, flatter than the types they usually got locally, and black with a pattern of cherry blossoms across it. Martin gasped, turning it around to admire every side. “It’s so heavy, too! Where did you even get this?”

“Uh, there was a shop in Covent Garden. It had lots of tea, and you know.” Mike floundered for a second. “I wanted to apologise. Did it work?”

Martin set the teapot down very carefully on top of the shoe cupboard and closed the distance between them, bending down to kiss Mike gently at the corner of his mouth. “I love it so much,” he breathed, hardly able to believe that here he was, kissing Mike again like some sort of normal person with a normal love life. “Thank you.” 

They broke apart, but still close enough that Martin could feel Mike’s breath on his cheek. The air between them was charged with tension, and Martin could barely breathe from it. His eyelashes fluttered, caught in the moment for a split-second, and then Mike was turning them round, pushing him against the door, both hands on his chest and standing on his toes to kiss Martin with a ferocity that both startled and aroused him. 

Martin wrapped both arms around Mike, holding him close as their kiss deepened. Mike tasted like licking a battery, or eating too many After Eights at Christmas, and Martin couldn’t get enough of it.

Mike paused for a breath, looking up at Martin with a lopsided expression on his face. “I’ve been thinking about that for a while,” he said, licking his lips slowly. “How you’d taste. How you’d feel against me.”

“Oh,” Martin said with a gasp. “Did you like it?”

Mike kissed him again in response, and Martin let his hands drop to the small of Mike’s back, pulling him in close enough that the pressure brought another gasp to his lips. 

“Th- the bed, maybe?” Martin said between kisses.

With a nod and a grunt of affirmation, Mike pulled away from Martin, though he did wrap his fist into Martin’s shirt for good measure. “Lead the way.”

They kissed their way down the corridor and Martin opened his bedroom door with his bottom, not wanting to be detached from Mike for more than a second. They both fell onto his double bed and came apart, breaths coming shallowly. Martin thought he could feel Mike’s erection pressing against him, and he flushed, suddenly shy.

Mike pressed two cool fingertips to Martin’s chin and lifted it, looking into his eyes curiously. “Why are you blushing? There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

“I’m no- I’m not embarrassed!” Martin flushed deeper, but managed to look Mike in the eyes. “It’s just been kind of a while, that’s all. Everything’s been so weird and busy all the time, and it’s not like I’m fighting off people left, right and centre, you know? And then there’s work an-”

A finger pressed against his lips, and Martin quieted. “None of that matters,” Mike said, soothing. He took hold of one of Martin’s hands with his free one and guided it down to press against his erection, now straining quite obviously against his jeans. 

Martin swallowed hard. He moved his hand, feeling the shape of Mike’s dick through his jeans. God, he felt so  _ good _ . “Is that nice? Does it feel good?”

Mike closed his eyes and pressed his head against the meat of Martin’s shoulder, and it struck Martin just how much smaller Mike was than him. He liked it a lot. Maybe as much as the way Mike’s hands seemed to have found their way down his body, up and under his crappy old t-shirt. Martin didn’t even have time to worry about his squishy belly, because Mike’s fingers found his nipples and  _ oh- _

“Your fingers are so chilly,” Martin murmured against Mike’s hair, “should that feel so good? Because it feels really good.”

“Mm, not sure actually,” Mike smiled into Martin’s shoulder and rolled one nipple between his fingers. “How about that?”

Martin gasped, eyes sliding closed. “Yeah, that- that’s good.” He felt pink around the cheeks, but for once it didn’t seem to be embarrassment. There was something about Mike that made Martin feel accepted, somehow. Like he wouldn’t be afraid to let Mike see him without a shirt with the lights on, and  _ that _ should’ve been a scary thought, but instead it left Martin feeling… happy. Almost high with it, even. 

He giggled, and Mike looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Did I say something funny?”

“Oh! No, no you didn’t, I was just… I dunno. Happy I guess?” Martin looked down at Mike, noticing the way his shirt was only half buttoned up, and he smiled shyly. “Can I?” He tugged at the collar of Mike’s shirt, moving it out of the way to reveal his collarbone, the Lichtenberg figure twisting its way up his chest and neck. 

Mike nodded and shifted enough to allow Martin access: he obliged, pulling at Mike’s shirt until it came up and over his body, sleeves turning inside out messily. Martin looked at the shirt for a second before Mike took it from him and tossed it over the side of the bed. “Don’t need that,” he said with a wicked smile, then turned his attention to Martin. “Or this.” He pulled off Martin’s shirt too, adding it to the mounting pile of clothes at the side of the bed. “There.” He laid back on his side, propped on one elbow, and his eyes raked up and down Martin’s body, drinking him in like a painting.

Martin blushed for real, then, and squirmed, trying to curl up and in on himself. “Mike,” he said, quietly, a little drawn out. “Don’t- don’t do that. Please?”

“Do what? I just want to look at you.” Mike reached out and ran his palm across Martin’s hip and up his side, taking his time to feel every last inch of him.

“But I’m all gross and-” Martin squeezed his eyes closed, “I’m gross and squishy and  _ fat _ , Mike. Maybe you should just go.” Martin thought that if Mike did go, he would probably die of a broken heart, but it was better than having Mike see all of him like this; all earlier thoughts of confidence fled under the brazen light of his own nakedness and flagging erection.

Cool hands took up his own, and Martin opened his eyes to see Mike looking at him, something like anger in his face. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again,” Mike said, almost growling, and Martin realised that it was the most emotion he’d seen from Mike yet.

“But it’s true,” he replied, words quiet. “It’s true Mike, there’s no point lying about it.”

“Alright, so maybe it is true. You’re squishy, whatever.” Mike moved forward, bending over to press a kiss against Martin’s belly. “Maybe I like that. You’re not hard and cold and unyielding, you’re soft,” he kissed him again, “and warm,” and another kiss, “and delicious,” and another. “So no more of that. Okay?”

Martin felt like his breath wasn’t going to come; time had stopped, and all he could think about was those words, those soft kisses against the fat of him, and he had to blink away tears. “Alright,” he managed through the lump in his throat. “Alright, I won’t- I won’t say that stuff again. Sorry, Mike. I feel like I ruined the mood and everything…”

“No you didn’t.” Mike wriggled back up the bed and pressed himself against Martin’s chest, hips juddering against him as their dicks brushed, even through their clothes. “See? Nothing’s ruined.” He kissed Martin deeply, grinding against him, and Martin felt himself harden once more in response. 

Martin groaned into Mike’s mouth and, in a moment of boldness, rolled him over onto his back so that he could straddle him. “Is- is this okay?” Martin pulled away for a second, breath coming shallowly. “I don’t want to squash you.”

“I can take a lot more than that,” Mike replied, “now come here and  _ stop thinking _ .” He dove one hand into Martin’s hair and pulled him down, the other moving to grip his hip and grind them together as they kissed again. 

This time, Martin allowed himself to relax into the kiss, against Mike, pressing him down into the bed and rutting against him like a horny teenager. Frankly, he almost  _ felt  _ like a horny teenager - Mike’s hand in his hair, the other slipping down the waistband of his jeans to palm his arse.

“Okay, can I um,” Martin broke apart from Mike, breath coming hard now. “Can I- your jeans? Too many clothes!” 

Without a response, Mike immediately began working on Martin’s jeans, pulling all the buttons apart and yanking them down along with Martin’s boxers too. Martin managed to struggle out of them, thankful that he didn’t wear those silly drainpipe skinny things, and too distracted by pulling Mike out of his jeans to worry that yeah, he was totally naked now. 

Martin paused for a little while, kneeling over Mike and just drinking him in. He was pale, but not pale enough that his scar didn’t show, and what a scar it was too. It took his breath away, sending that swooping feeling straight into his stomach again. “Did it hurt a lot?” he whispered, reaching out to trace the line of it arcing across Mike’s hip.

“Yeah, it did.” Mike’s voice was rough, but he didn’t stop Martin from touching the scar, from tracing every last line of it with reverent fingers. 

“You must have been so scared.”

“Mm, it was- yeah. Scary is one word, I suppose.”

Martin bent over, nuzzled at the juncture between hip and stomach, testing out how it would feel to lick his way across that scar. 

Cooler than Mike’s skin, it almost tingled against his lips and tongue. Martin giggled against Mike’s stomach, admiring the flat planes of it, even though Mike wasn’t the skinniest guy. He was just, well, normal, Martin figured. Enough flesh there that he wasn’t skin and bone, but not as much as Martin himself had. And yeah, he couldn’t get enough of it. 

“You taste like a mojito or something,” Martin said between kisses. “Kinda minty and fresh and fizzy, all at the same time. That’s weird, isn’t it?”

“You make me sound like a toothpaste.” Mike chuckled, though, head back against Martin’s pillows, one hand threading into his curls and the other grabbing hold of the quilt beneath them. 

“What if I like toothpaste!” Martin looked up at Mike, resting his chin on his belly. “How about that, Mr Monster Guy.”

“Touché, you got me there.” Mike wriggled underneath Martin, dick brushing against Martin’s skin, and groaned. “So, you gonna do anything about this?”

Martin ducked his head, hiding it against Mike’s stomach for a second before getting up his courage once more. “I had a thought,” he said, almost a whisper, as though he didn’t dare shape the words. 

Mike raised an eyebrow and tilted Martin’s head so he was looking up at him again, albeit from under his lashes with shyness. “Go on,” he encouraged.

“I thought- maybe I could ride you or something.” The words came out in a tumble and Martin immediately buried his face back into Mike’s stomach, shakily breathing in his electric scent.

There was a tiny inhale, a gasp that Martin probably wouldn’t even have heard if he wasn’t so tense, waiting for the backlash to his suggestion, and then soft fingers rubbing against his scalp through his curls. “I’d really like that,” Mike replied, something in his voice that Martin couldn’t quite identify. “Yeah, I’d- come on.” 

Mike pulled Martin up and on top of him, rocking his hips upwards and grinding them together even as he took his mouth in a ferocious kiss. 

Martin gasped in surprise, then dissolved into Mike’s touch, rubbing against him with little groans and moans. He felt his face redden when Mike reached down and touched their dicks, but all embarrassment fled when he took hold of them both with a loose hand, stroking up and down until Martin bucked against Mike. 

“I- I haven’t done this before,” Martin managed to breathe, between kisses. “Not all the way. I hope that’s okay…”

“Don’t be stupid, it’s fine.” Mike looked up at Martin, holding his gaze with those too-blue eyes. “But I need to- you know.” He waved a hand, and Martin nodded, expecting Mike to move them both around and look around for lube and wow, he really had a habit of making everything fifty times more awkward, didn’t he?

When Mike reached off the side of the bed and came back up with a pump bottle that he knew definitely hadn’t been there before. He didn’t even  _ own _ a pump bottle of lube, let alone one that smelled so strangely airy and  _ fizzy _ .

“Wow, what  _ is  _ that?” Martin got to his knees, straddling Mike’s thighs and grabbing the lube bottle from him. “It smells amazing, oh my god.” 

Mike removed the bottle and pumped out a generous helping into the palm of his hand. “Something special,” he murmured, “now are you going to open up for me?” His voice was low and husky, and it sent a shiver down Martin’s spine.

Martin leaned back obligingly, propping himself up with both hands on the bed, on either side of his own thighs. When Mike began to touch him, he could barely stop the moans that fell from his lips. Cool, lube-coated fingers pushed inside him and Martin’s eyes slid closed, head dropped back, and he just let himself  _ feel _ .

“How is that so much already?” he gasped, “that’s only one finger, right?”

“One finger and a whole lot of Vast,” Mike said with a throaty chuckle. “Never say there isn’t a bonus to fucking an Avatar, huh? Do you think you can take more?” 

Martin nodded, and then groaned as Mike pushed in another two fingers, and then three and then four and  _ oh _ \- “More,” Martin breathed, “more Mike, come on. I want you, now please. Please?” 

With a grin, Mike pulled his fingers out of Martin and stroked his own dick with the lube left on his hand, slicking himself up. 

Martin leaned over him, pressing his forehead against Mike’s as they breathed and then, with the slightest of movements, he sank down onto the head of Mike’s dick with a deep, guttural groan. “Oh shit,” he breathed, eyes squeezing closed as he tried to catch his breath. “M-Mike, you’re so  _ big _ .”

“Advantages, just like I said,” Mike replied with a chuckle, but the hitch in his breath showed exactly how much he was enjoying himself. He rolled his hips and pushed into Martin until he was as deep as he could go, holding him there with both hands on the curve of Martin’s arse while they both settled into the sensations. “You feel amazing,” Mike murmured, “so damn amazing,  _ god _ .”

“You- you like it?” Martin opened his eyes and looked right at Mike, searching his face for some sort of trick or mockery, but all he found was raw, open adoration. He blushed and squirmed, gasping when the movement drove Mike a little deeper. “Oh,” he moaned, “oh that’s good. Is it meant to be so good?”

“Pretty sure it is, yeah.” Mike rocked his hips upwards, then pulled out again slightly. “So what was this about you wanting to ride me, hm?”

Martin opened his mouth to protest, but the Mike did that  _ thing _ again and he felt so full and wow, he needed more of that. With a grunt, Martin used Mike’s chest to push himself upright until he was straddling him on his knees. He straightened his back, Mike’s hands still on his arse, and gasped as he managed to sink deeper somehow. “ _ Fuck _ !” Martin clapped a hand over his mouth immediately, eyes wide at his own filth.

“Oh, you like that?” Mike jerked his hips upwards at the same time as he took hold of Martin’s hips, pulling him down harder onto his dick.

“Yeah, I really-” Martin gasped as Mike did that  _ thing _ again; a gesture of his hand and he was so full it made him dizzy, stomach swooping like he was free falling and the scent of ozone and petrichor in his nose until it was all he could do to keep himself grounded. 

Mike took hold of Martin’s dick and jerked him in time with his thrusts, which were becoming more erratic as his own powers and pleasure took him over. 

Martin arched his back and he  _ flew _ , coming onto Mike’s belly with a strangled whimper. His eyes were closed so tightly that he missed the flickers of lightning chase up Mike’s scar as he came inside Martin, fingers tight enough on his hips and dick that it was almost painful.

Releasing his hands slowly, Mike ran his palms up Martin’s thighs, stroking them to stillness as Martin came down from his high. He focused on stifling his powers, quieting the Vast emptiness that called to him, and grounded himself in the moment with Martin.

“Come here,” Mike murmured, reaching up and tugging Martin until he collapsed bonelessly on top of him. He threaded his non-sticky fingers into Martin’s curls and petted his head until he felt him relax.

“Oh my god,” Martin whispered croakily, still shivering bodily every so often. “That was-  _ oh my god _ .” He buried his head into Mike’s neck, inhaling his clean, ozone scent now tinged with salt, sweat and sex. “I didn’t know it’d be like that.”

“I hope that’s a good thing?” Mike sounded a little unsure, and Martin looked up at him, resting his chin on Mike’s chest.

“Yeah, it’s definitely a good thing! Don’t be silly.” Martin stifled a huge yawn, then buried his face into Mike again. “You’re really comfy. You gonna stay over?” He normally wouldn’t dream of asking that of someone, especially not after they’d, ahem, you know for the first time, but Mike’s fingers were soothing against his scalp and Martin felt like he could sleep for a year with his face in that clean, thunderstorm scent. 

“Yeah, I can stay over.” Mike smiled and kissed Martin’s head, pressing his nose into his hair. “You sound drunk, are you okay?”

Martin giggled. “I’m great, Mike! You’re great too, I want you to stay over.” He felt drunk, actually. Drunk on the sensations and the feeling of fullness and satisfaction which still tingled between his legs. 

“Okay, fair enough. Wanna shower, though? I don’t want to wake up glued to you tomorrow.”

“Ew, that’s gross.” Martin rolled off Mike and propped himself up on his elbow. “Yeah, now you mention it, ugh. Let’s shower?”

Mike smiled and gestured at Martin. “After you, then.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Martin stood up and pulled Mike up after him. “You just want to look at me,” he said, amazed at the words that were coming out of his mouth so freely. 

“Yeah, I do.” Mike followed it up with a long, lingering look up and down the length of Martin’s body, and Martin flushed all over again.

“Hey, you’re embarrassing me!” 

“Not what you were saying ten minutes ago when you were riding me like a champion.” Mike pulled Martin in for a hug, his turn to press his face into Martin’s chest, their height difference all the more evident while standing and totally naked.

Martin grumbled into Mike’s hair. “Now you’re just teasing me.”

“Yup. Shower?”

\- - -

Martin’s eyes opened with the dawn spilling through his curtains, curled around Mike like a protective mother bear or something, face pressed into his hair. He yawned widely, and pressed a kiss to the back of Mike’s neck.

“Morning,” Martin murmured sleepily. 

“Hey,” Mike mumbled, “what time is it? Do you  _ always  _ wake up this early?” He stayed resolutely turned away, but pressed himself back against Martin a little more.

“Only when I’m cuddling you all night, apparently. I don’t think I’ve slept that well in years!”

“Hmm, glad I could help.” Mike wiggled enough that he could turn his head and mouth a sleepy kiss against Martin’s jaw. “Morning, then. Your bed’s pretty comfy, you know.”

“It’s better with you in it, I think.” Martin captured Mike’s lips and kissed him deeply, morning breath and all. Apparently whatever traces of boldness he’d gained from last night had stuck around; he didn’t feel even a trace of awkwardness or shyness. Hard to do that, he figured, when you’d spent all night with your crotch pressed up against another guy’s arse. “Although my arm is kinda dead…”

Mike chuckled and then finally moved, turning round so he could look at Martin. The light from the windows poured in behind him, haloing his hair and making Martin gasp inside. 

“How are you so gorgeous?” he murmured, leaning in to press his forehead against Mike’s. “I’m- I just feel really lucky right now. That’s really dumb, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think so. I think it’s really sweet actually.” Mike leaned in and kissed Martin, slow and languid, taking his time with him. “Mm, I think I could do that forever.”

“Me too.” Martin sighed happily, feeling it bubbling up through his whole body. “So what do you wanna do today?”

“I was thinking,” Mike said, between kisses, “I haven’t taken you on a proper date yet. Since I kept, you know.” 

“Almost killing me?” Martin chuckled. “Yeah, that’d be nice though. Maybe we could get breakfast?” As if on cue, his stomach rumbled, and he laughed out loud. “Yeah, breakfast sounds really good right now.”

“Anywhere you fancy? What do you like to eat for breakfast?”

Martin pondered for a second. “Well, I normally only have cereal and stuff.”

“Okay, but what do you actually  _ like _ to eat? We’re not going to go and eat cornflakes out of a chipped bowl somewhere, you know.”

“I suppose- yeah, pancakes! Or waffles, with syrup and bacon.” Martin drifted off, imagining fat stacks of those fluffy American style pancakes soaking in maple syrup with mounds of crispy, streaky bacon on top.

He came back to himself with Mike squeezing his hand. “Sounds good, where sells them?”

“Huh? Oh! Really? I don’t know. There might be a sort of French place; I think Basira mentioned going with Daisy once. Patisserie Something?”

“Patisserie Something it is then. I hope you’re hungry, I feel like I could eat a whale for once.”

“A  _ whale _ ? Since when is that the phrase?” Martin burst out laughing at the thought of tiny Mike attempting to eat a whole whale.

“Hey, I’m with the Vast remember? Ridiculously huge is kind of our thing.”

Martin shot a sidelong glance at Mike. “Y-yeah, I think I noticed that.”

Mike followed him into laughter, sides shaking. “I hope you’re not hurting,” he managed to get out between breaths. 

“No, I’m actually feeling really good? I mean, okay it still kinda  _ feels _ , if that makes sense? Like, I think I can still feel you, a bit. It’s-” Martin shivered pleasantly. “It’s really nice. Is that weird?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Mike rolled up and out of bed, pulling Martin with him. “Come on, let’s shower. I still feel sticky.”

“Not really a surprise, considering.” Martin smiled shyly, then followed Mike, tamping down his self-conscious habit of stooping and curling into himself when naked so as to show as little flesh as possible. He still didn’t quite manage to stand up straight, but it was a huge leap of progress for him, so Martin allowed himself to feel a little proud. 

The shower was hot and slippery with shower gel and kisses, Mike pressing Martin up against the chilly tiles to kiss him deeply in between washing himself. It made what would normally have been a standard, five minute in-and-out shower into a much more pleasant experience, and one that Martin would remember every time he got into the shower from then on.

After getting dressed together - Mike in his clothes from yesterday, since Martin’s were hilariously gigantic on him - Martin pulled up the details of Patisserie Something, Valerie apparently, and found the best route for them to travel by.

Something about travelling on the tube with someone else, their hands twined together, made Martin’s heart and stomach flutter. It was like that terrifying-glorious vertigo Mike carried with him, but so much sweeter. Mike’s shoulder pressed against Martin’s, and in a moment of boldness, Martin wrapped one hand around Mike’s waist, pulling him closer, flush against his side and funny looks be damned.

Thankfully it was only a few stops until they had to get off, and Martin sighed in relief. “Why do people always  _ stare _ ?” he murmured, squeezing Mike’s hand tighter. “It’s like they don’t have anything better to do than judge people.”

“Ignore them.” Mike turned and pressed a kiss to Martin’s shoulder. “Just think about pancakes and not arseholes.”

“Mm, easier said than done. You don’t have to worry about anything, but us normal humans do, you know. If people decided to, I dunno, beat you up or something, you could just make the sky eat them.” He clapped his hands once, then took hold of Mike’s hand once more. “But all I could do is curl up in a ball or run away, and I’m really rubbish at running.”

Mike bristled, and Martin tasted petrichor. “No one’s going to hurt you while I have a say in it.” He glared around at the passers-by, then stopped and pointed upwards. “Oh, I think we’re here.”

Martin’s stomach rumbled, and he burst out into a brilliant grin. “I’m starving, thank god. Easier to think of pancakes now they’re almost in front of me!”

“I suppose you could always pretend they’ve got the faces of arseholes on them while you’re eating.”

“Ew, what? That’s gross Mike!” Martin swatted Mike on the shoulder as he gestured that they wanted a table for two. 

“Well, it’s gotta be better than thinking about people beating you up.” They sat down and Mike watched Martin as he scoured the menu.

“A-are you watching me?” Martin flushed, eyes darting up over the menu to meet Mike’s. 

“Yeah, I like watching you. You’re even cuter when you’re not being self-conscious.”

Martin hid his face behind the menu, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “I don’t know why I’m looking, I already know I want pancakes.”

“With bacon? Is it good?”

The menu came back down. “What do you mean? Haven’t you had it before?”

“Maybe, I can’t actually remember. I don’t think I’ve really been eating much since, you know.” Mike waved a hand vaguely. “And I can’t even remember what I used to  _ like _ eating.”

That struck Martin as being really quite sad, and he took one of Mike’s hands in his own. “We’ll just have to make you retry everything, then,” he said, determined. “And we can find you some new favourites.”

Mike smiled softly. “I’d like that.”

“We can start with a massive pile of pancakes and bacon and syrup!”

“Start as we mean to go on, hm?”

“Definitely.”


End file.
